Rules of Engagement
by Laurie M
Summary: An AU 'Closer'-verse. An evening out with colleagues results in an unexpected shift in relationship for Brenda and one of her team. COMPLETE.
1. Conduct Unbecoming

**DISCLAIMER:** I DO NOT OWN _THE CLOSER_ OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS - I'M JUST PLAYING WITH THEM.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** 1.) I love Brenda&Fritz, I really do. But,

2.) I have always had a yen for Brenda&Flynn. So. Here be a short offering of an AU _Closer_-verse where, somewhere in season 3, Brenda is single and...

**AUTHOR NOTES PART 2: **This started life as a short one shot, it really did. But, as anyone who knows me will attest, I can never leave well enough alone (and it turned out that Brenda and Flynn weren't done with me yet), so this little fic has expanded somewhat... Chapter 2 is now up, with 2 more to come.

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**Rules of Engagement**

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_1. Conduct Unbecoming_

By the time their evening has drawn to a close most of them have already left: Sanchez volunteering to take Provenza home, absorbing with his usual placidity the old curmudgeon's grumblings; Daniels and Gabriel melting away, their discretion aided by everyone else pretending not to notice them; Tao and Buzz lost to all of them hours ago in a conversation conducted in impenetrable technoese. And somehow she has ended up with half a drink still in her glass and Flynn.

In the course of the game of non-musical chairs, partners had swapped, conversations sprung up and halted abruptly, but now the lull has come, the easiness of silence and that ease is surprising. Without his usual comrade in mischief, Flynn is quieter, more thoughtful. One hand rests around his empty glass, only occasional drops of ice-water still clinging to its sides.

'Is it hard not drinking?' Brenda asks, her fingers closing around the stem of her own glass, moving it away, as though the proximity might cause offence.

He blinks, looks at her, shrugs. 'Uh... Not so much. Somedays... Yeah, somedays you'd like nothing better than to crawl into a bottle.' He shrugs again. 'But you can't. I can't.'

'Is that why-' She stops, feeling the heat in her cheeks. This, she thinks, this is why she never does well being sociable: she turns everything into an interrogation.

'Is that why what?' He's the one who's curious, watching her.

'Nothing.' She takes some of her drink, relishing its soft, fruity richness. He still watches, waiting. He's never struck her as a patient man but, like her, he'll do what he has to to get answers. Another sip, she replaces the glass. 'Is that why you're divorced?' She looks at him and can't tell if he's offended. 'You were married.'

'Twice.' He pushes the glass away, wet marks streaking across the table's already scuffed surface. 'First time while I was still drinking; the second time we divorced after I stopped. My wife still thought I was an ass. Women, huh?' He rolls his eyes, the mantle of cynicism he wears settling back.

She smiles, one corner of her mouth turning up, going along with it. It's easy to think of him like that: the cynic, the one who's seen it all too many times, hard through and through. But she's seen gentleness in him, tenderness even; and there is loyalty, not easily won but when it is it runs deep.

'Of course, it's also the job,' he adds. 'You can't have two big relationships at the same time and the job is the biggest. It has to be.'

'You're not planning on matching Provenza's record then, Lieutenant?'

He grimaces and then grins at her. 'Wild horses, Chief. Not ever again. Besides, doing what we do? It kills off most relationships before they've even begun.'

And that, she thinks, is the sum of it. She can't blame Fritz for wanting more and she can't blame herself for not having it to give. But she misses him, still, and wonders if they might have made it if they'd both tried a little harder. But when the chance for promotion had come he hadn't asked her to go with him, avoiding her inevitable refusal. Washington has never really been her town anyway. She's just about got used to L.A. and with her change can only come by slow millimetres.

Beside her Flynn is silent again, still something she can't get used to, his fingers wandering restlessly. She watches as he peels a wrapper off a toothpick, plays with it, snaps it and drops it on the table.

'You don't chew those anymore,' she says suddenly and he looks at her again.

'Huh? Oh.' His face clears and he laughs. 'Yeah, another bad habit. I used to smoke: chewing on one of those kept my mind off the cravings.'

'You really do believe in all the vices.'

'Used to,' he corrects her and he is gentle. And the infuriating smile is back when his fingers flick against the broken scraps of wood. 'Anyway, those things kept giving me splinters in my teeth.'

She finishes her drink, pushing the glass across the table, her finger-tips lightly on the base; there are knots in her shoulders, snaking up into her neck and she wants a shower and sleep and she doesn't want to stand up. 'I guess I better ring for a cab'.

'It's okay, Chief, I'll give you a lift.'

'You sure? Isn't it out of your way?'

He shrugs. 'Not really, just a detour.'

'Oh.' She hadn't known that. She knows so little about any of them, her squad, of which she is so proud. 'Well, thank-you, Lieutenant.'

They stand and then he crouches down again to retrieve the contents of her bag that have spilled across the floor and when he hands them to her there is the inevitable amusement in his face and something that might be affection but is gone too quickly.

In the parking lot he hands her into his car, closing the door on her, the display of the gentleman he can be when he wants to. It's a few years past still having that new car smell but it is meticulously clean. And his taste in music, she notices when she looks into the glove compartment, runs the A-Z of Frank Sinatra. When he slides into the seat next to her she is still investigating and not pretending not to; he doesn't seem to have expected anything different; maybe he would have been disappointed by a lack of interest.

'I should have known you'd be a Rat Pack fan,' she says.

His eyes slip sideways. 'I'm not. I don't really like the Vegas stuff, I prefer it earlier. And the Capitol recordings in the Fifties; he was at his best then.'

Light and shadow slice across the windshield, pattern the contours of his face; she has him in profile while he stares ahead, both hands gripping the steering wheel while the engine throbs quietly.

'Are we waiting for something?'

His lips quirk, the one eyebrow she can see rising as he glances at her. 'Yeah, for you to put your seat-belt on. Otherwise you'll have to arrest yourself.'

It's a joke that keeps him amused while she fumbles with the strap and still when the car guns out onto the street. Halfway through their journey she wonders if maybe after all he was just being polite but he drives smoothly and without hesitation, taking side-roads and shortcuts she didn't even know existed and thinks that maybe she should get him to draw her a map but then imagines the hours of entertainment he'll get out of that one and decides no. So they are largely silent but it is still easy. She props her cheek against her hand, feels the pressure of cold glass against her knuckles and her eyes are heavy.

When the car rolls to a stop it takes her a moment to realise they are outside her house and he's already out of the car before she can move, walking around the front to hold the door open for her. She clutches her bag, murmurs thank-you, and he gets one hand under her elbow, barely touching her but guiding her up and out. It is cooler out than she had realised, a breeze blowing down into the city from the mountains bringing freshness and the promise of rain behind it. He walks her to her door, waits while she searches the depths of her bag for her keys.

'Need a hand there, Chief?' He has his hands in his pockets, his head tilted back.

'No, thank-you, Lieutenant.' Triumphant she jangles them in his face and sees the white glimmer of his teeth.

When the door is opened they are greeted by a streak of grey fur; Brenda throws herself at it, impeding Kitty's bid for freedom and carries her inside the house, the cat all offended feline pride and flexed claws. Deposit Kitty and begin the familiar mantra.

'Bad Kitty. Bad.'

The cat flicks its tail, turns its gaze to Flynn who has gained possession of Brenda's unwieldy bag - and looks as though he wishes he hadn't - and butts her head against him. He twists his fingers into the thick fluff at the back of Kitty's neck and she purrs hoarsely, pressing her weight against him.

'Nice cat,' he says and hands her the bag.

'He's a handful. I didn't know in L.A. that when you buy a house you get a free cat.'

'We love a bargain,' he says, dead-pan, starts to say something else and changes his mind. 'I'll see you in the squad room.'

'Yes.' A pause and the ease has gone. 'Thank-you. Andy.' The sound of it, the feel of it in her mouth, his name, is strange.

He looks surprised and then pleased. 'My pleasure.'

The cat jumps down, stalking away with her tail held high and without the husky purring the silence seems heavy. Brenda remembers something told to her by Mary-Beth Hunter, two years older and well-known to all the boys in their high-school, that if you want a boy to kiss you, all you have to do is stand very close to him. They are standing very close and she tells herself that it isn't because she wants something; she thinks that there are rules governing office affairs and they are there for a reason; just before her eyes close she thinks that this is a very bad idea but after his lips are on hers she doesn't think at all.

That first touch is a shock, a jolt like suddenly waking up. And he doesn't taste the way she had expected, the scotch-and-cigarettes taste, of course he wouldn't and _when had she even thought about this before?_

His hands bracket her waist, holding her steady against him. Her fingers grasp the lapel of his jacket, holding on. When he tilts his head back and looks at her she studies his face. There are flecks in his eyes, dancing gold, that she's never noticed before. He moves one hand, the tips of his fingers resting against her cheek, feeling the hardness of bone beneath the smooth skin. Then both hands drop and he steps back.

'Goodnight, Brenda.' And then gone. He closes the door, the lock barely audible clicking into place. Like he's never been there, and this never happened. Something over before it's begun.

She finds she's sitting on the arm of the sofa, pushes herself away from it, propels herself across the room. Her teeth take hold of her lower lip, and that strange new taste she finds there, something pleasurable and dangerous and she knows that it isn't over. It hasn't even started yet.


	2. For One Night Only

_2. For One Night Only_

When he peels the car away from the kerb he thinks that of all the mistakes he's made about Brenda Leigh Johnson, this is the worst. Certainly the most stupid and he has had plenty of experience with stupid things.

Putting a move on your boss ranks pretty high on the scale, especially when she's the ex of the big boss and he wonders vaguely if Pope has managed to get her back, which would just make everything perfect.

She's an impossible human being and he concentrates on that fact for a moment, nearly running a red light and braking just in time. A hurricane of a woman: clever, tough-minded and a little crazy; and the worst part of it is that he _likes_ those things in a woman.

He licks the taste of her from his lips, rich and deep like the wine she'd been drinking and just as addictive. He wonders if maybe he should go to a meeting; he imagines shuffling into the back, tripping over the feet of the guy who's spent the day hanging around outside a bar without going in and is now crying to himself (because there's always one like that) and standing up to confess to being whatever it is you'd call someone who's stuck on Brenda Leigh. That would be an idiot, a small part of his brain tells him and he has to agree.

But then decides no, he'll handle this, and that just for now, for this one night only he'll be an addict again. For tonight he'll give in, he'll revel in her, the memory of her, the way she had said his name. Andy. Two simple syllables given a cadence by her accent that he had never heard before. Breathiness behind it and he imagines her saying it again, sighing it.

After tonight he'll catch hold, push it down deep, lock her away along with all the other things he's given up. Another memory that he won't take out and look at because it's safer that way. Need is something he's learnt to control, to deal with in small doses.

But for now he allows himself the luxury. The traffic light turns to green, to red, and back again before he notices and the car judders through the intersection. He should have known, he reflects, that she would have this effect, in the end; she can stand everyone else on their head so there's no reason why he should be immune.

Working for her was, once, a form of not-so-subtle torture; it is still torture, but of a different kind and one that he took on willingly. If she had thrown him to the wolves, and he admits that he couldn't have blamed her, he could still have been nursing his hostility but then there wouldn't be _this; _this, whatever it is, and he isn't sure that he wants to give it up. He feels light-headed, like after the first hit of a cigarette but stronger, and for a moment he thinks that he'd do _anything_- Maybe this is what the real junkies feel and maybe he'll have a bit more sympathy for them from now on, but probably not.

Back home, his own place, on safe ground. He wonders if she's still awake, scouring the house for the stash of candy he knows she'll have somewhere, the cat trailing along behind her. Perhaps she's already in bed, gold hair tangled across her pillow and he lingers on that image for a while. He's allowing himself that.

Even with city blocks between them she is still overwhelming. There was a time, for a long time, when he liked to be lost and he could be lost again, over her. He'll be lost, just for a few hours, just until morning and then-

And then they'll go back to the way it was before and the next time the squad goes out they'll sit at opposite ends of the tables and he won't drive her home.

He thought he'd left the scent of her perfume behind but he can still smell it.

The rooms are too quiet. Turn on the stereo, whatever was playing the last time starts up again, sound filling up the speakers and spilling out into the darkness of his home. The arrangement of strings is instantly familiar. Sinatra, of course, the last really good one, _Point of No Return_,1962. The smile that greets it is grim. It's ironic, he thinks, and he really hates irony.


	3. Status Quo

_3. Status Quo_

By the next morning she has, inevitably, changed her mind again. A liaison with a fellow officer, a subordinate in her squad, is unthinkable. The Merlot, she decides, the Merlot had gone to her head.

In that case, what would Flynn's excuse be?

She's replayed it so many times she's no longer sure what happened exactly. He kissed her, or maybe she kissed him- They kissed each other, that is definite.

Kitty jumps up on the bed, making a nest out of the jacket Brenda has laid out; she snatches it up, ignoring the cat's protest.

'It's all your fault anyway,' she tells the placid amber eyes. 'If you'd stayed in the house like you're supposed to- Bad Kitty. Bad.'

Kitty blinks at her.

She pulls on the jacket, brushing away the cat hairs, looks at herself in the mirror and wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She expunges that thought. She's too old to be turned inside out by one kiss, no matter how intoxicating. For a moment she remembers the stillness and then the sudden warmth of his breath against her lips.

It's been slow lately but if she's lucky there'll be a homicide for her to get into and she overlooks the fact that wanting that might make her a terrible person. Murders will happen anyway and she'll do her penance by catching the killer.

At least, that's how it goes in her head.

Before she leaves she remembers to put Kitty's DVD on for him, her, whatever, and is out the door.

Her phone remains irritatingly silent.

Parker Centre: just out of the elevator and Pope catches her, talks at her about statistics and crime figures and no matter how much she twists and turns the end result is that they'll all spend the day at their desks doing paperwork. Pope walks away, looking pleased that he's accomplished something and she thinks he's lucky that he doesn't know just how close he nearly came to becoming a crime statistic himself.

But the challenge will be walking into the squad room and she lingers in the hallway, convinced of the knowing stares that will greet her and imagining how Flynn will have told them all - and then feels guilty because for all his toughness he isn't like that, not with her, not now, and she knows it.

So she walks in and everything is the same: Daniels wearing the wearied look she has when she's just put Sanchez in his place, again, and him looking as though he's enjoyed it (which he probably has); Gabriel on the phone; Tao peering down his nose at his computer. They glance at her, vague nods of welcome. All is right with the world. Her gaze shifts from Tao, across the room, to the figure standing at the desk at the back. Flynn, frowning at his notebook, and-

'Lieutenant Flynn!'

He looks up, takes the toothpick out of his mouth. 'Cravings, Chief.' He clamps his teeth around it.

She stares at him for a moment, trying to recapture the ragged threads of her thoughts. Faces stare back at her, waiting for instructions; it's only Provenza, right there in front of her, who is close enough to see something in the lines of her face. His head turns, looking across at Flynn, and then turns back, slowly, to her, and he has the slit-eyed look he gets when he's scented blood. She lifts her chin, trying to keep him out of her line of sight.

There's a collective slump of shoulders as she hands down Pope's edict and they are united in mutiny. Provenza leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and is immovable. She flees to her office, closes the door and tells herself to breathe.

Over the course of the morning, one by one, they filter in to whine, and entreat, and complain. All but Provenza. She sends them all back and from time to time, when she glances up, they are sitting, heads bent, tapping at their keyboards methodically, like a bunch of recalcitrant schoolkids on detention.

Flynn is the last one in, not to complain but to clarify a point. He looks at her steadily, keeping a little extra distance between himself and her desk and the little speech she's been rehearsing starts to fade. The white stick in the corner of his mouth is like a red flag on the beach - a danger sign.

'Anything else, Chief?' He is polite.

'No... Not unless you can get Lieutenant Provenza to fill out his paperwork.' She glares through through the glass walls at the stubborn figure, still leaning back in his chair.

'He'll do it,' he tells her and turns.

She catches a breath. 'Lieuten-'

But Gabriel is there, through the door, and Flynn goes back to his desk.

He has apparently made a decision for the both of them and she feels resentful that he hasn't at least had the courtesy of giving her the chance to agree with him.

And if she's honest - which is easy with other people but not so much for herself - she would have preferred the opportunity to disagree with him, to list in response to his advances all the reasons why anything more between them is an impossibility. But maybe, she thinks with a rush of disappointment, none of it mattered that much to him anyway.


	4. Point of No Return

_4. Point of No Return_

Lunch with Provenza is more of a habit than anything else and today Flynn doesn't think that he's up to the usual round of banter and insults but for a while he is spared because Provenza spends the first fifteen minutes complaining about Sanchez's driving.

'He accelerates around corners.' Provenza is working his way through a plate of bacon that would probably keep a small pig farm in business. 'No braking, no slowing - he goes faster. Have you any idea what it's like seeing death come rushing at you on a blind bend? At my age?'

He's used to the rhythms of these conversations, knows when to nod, when to make the noises that will make it sound like he's been listening. Then Provenza takes in a breath, deep, and blows it out noisily.

'Okay, what is going on? I've had livelier conversations in the morgue.'

Flynn eyes him wearily - and warily. He's under no illusions about the old grouch. 'That explains a lot. What, you go down there and practice?'

His own plate is largely untouched; he wasn't hungry anyway, at least not for anything they serve here. But his hands are restless and they fall back into the old habit, pulling one of the toothpicks out of the little pot on the table.

Provenza is still, fork poised and ready for the next assault. 'Cravings... Are you okay?'

'I'm fine,' he says, weighting the words. He holds the gaze and knows he's holding it for too long; he was never a very good liar. He snaps it between his fingers, drops it. 'Anything else?'

The older man is still motionless, still watching him, and then he shrugs lightly. 'Just wondering. As long as you're sure.'

'I'm sure. Are you going to be all day?'

Provenza drops the fork, pushes the plate away. 'I'm done.'

'Good.' He grasps the edge of the table, pulls himself out of the booth. Provenza is granite-faced and about as movable. 'Now what?'

He takes his time, wiping his fingers fastidiously on a napkin, slowly easing himself along the banquette until he can stand. Flynn rolls his eyes, annoyance spearing through. He turns but Provenza's voice calls him back.

'Flynn.' They face each other. 'You haven't done anything stupid have you? Stupider than usual, I mean.' That earns Provenza a glare, a harder one.

'Like what?'

Shoulders rise, stay up for a moment, then fall back. 'I don't know. But I know you.'

'I'm touched. Can we please go back to the squad or shall I tell the chief you've decided to do all of us a favour and quit?'

If he goes on like this he'll be taking the Grouch of the Year award - breaking Provenza's streak at least - but can't quite seem to care.

Back in the squad room and everyone is too wrapped up in their own misery to notice anyone else's. He gets locked into a fight to the death with the spellchecker, finally resorting to a hunt through desk drawers to locate a dictionary and feeling vindicated by the result. It's a petty victory but he'll take what he can get.

And it would all be easier except for the constant presence of golden hair on the periphery of his vision. Angling himself away from the glass walls of her office doesn't really help because he's still so _aware _of her. And there are times when he's certain that he can feel her watching him, always shifting her gaze just as he turns his head to look back at her.

As the L.A. sun starts to set and red streaks of fading light crawl across the walls and floor the atmosphere in the room shifts subtly: the end of a working day is not something they usually notice, it's a technicality that occurs while they're still busy working; but after a day of enforced inactivity and with no-one willing to pay them overtime for sitting around practising their typing skills, they get to do what normal people do and go home before the dark sets in. He doesn't want to go home. Nothing about this situation is normal. If it were - and if she were a normal woman - there would be obvious next steps. There would be, or at least might be, dinners and conversations; but he knows her well enough to know that while confession might be her forte, conversation is not.

Tao stops by his desk on his way out, no particular reason but in the absence of Buzz he evidently needs someone to offload to about some gadget or other and as Flynn is the only one left in the squad room, he'll do. It's a one-sided conversation, but Tao has never really needed anyone else's input in these matters. And just like earlier with Provenza he smiles and nods and smiles until his jaw aches with the strain.

It's quiet with everyone gone. Screensavers project shimmering green light, only the low hum of the air conditioning colours the silence. He can still see her through the clear walls: her glasses firmly in position as she squints at her monitor with an expression that could mean anything from horror at some case file she's reading or simply perturbation at how to turn the damn thing on in the first place. Whatever it is she gives it up, one hand moving to the top-left drawer of her desk where she keeps her stash and he thinks he'll give her a few moments to enjoy it. The treat of the night is small and wrapped in silver paper. She peels back the covering with the same passionate intensity she brings to her cases, her features ecstatic when she scrapes the frosting off, gets the first taste of it.

None of them who do this job are normal, he reflects: they are all obsessives to one degree or another.

He pulls together his files and papers and is surprised by the evidence of his own activity; he takes them to her office and when he hands them across she smiles slightly.

'Thank you, Lieutenant.' She hesitates for a moment, about to stuff them into her already maltreated bag but then places them on a pile on her desk. 'I'll save some of the fun for tomorrow. At least it'll keep Chief Pope from breathing down my neck for about a day.'

There's a quality in her tone when she says the name that gives him brief satisfaction. If nothing else there's that.

Brenda flicks through the files. 'I'd love to know how you got Lieutenant Provenza to co-operate, but I think I'm too afraid to ask.'

He smiles, his hands in his pockets. 'I just threatened to go back on our deal.' Off her look he continues: 'That whole Don Baxter thing shook him up. He's terrified about ending up in a retirement home, so when that time comes I get to shoot him instead.'

She lets out a breath of laughter and shakes her head. 'You two... You're as bad as each other.'

He smiles, acknowledging, and then takes his hands out of his pockets and gets her gaze with his. 'I'm sorry.'

She catches her breath, not pretending not to understand. 'Oh, for heaven's sake. You have nothing to be sorry about, Lieuten- Shoot!' She stands up, pulls her glasses off and glares at him. He meets it, his shoulders set a little too square.

'I crossed a line that shouldn't have been crossed.'

'Well, it's not like you did it on your own- I don't want to have this conversation! I don't want to hear anymore about it. There is nothing to discuss - do you understand me?'

'Yes, Chief,' he says, soft.

Her face twists. 'Don't do that.'

'What?'

'Be so reasonable, so nice about it.'

He protests, 'I am nice.' He thinks about it. 'I can be.'

'I know.' And she sounds defeated. Her glasses are still in her hands, clutched so tight that the frames must be digging into her palms. She lets go, dropping them to the desk. 'I think I preferred it when you were a pain in the ass. You're still a pain in the ass. But at least now you're _my_ pain in the ass.' She chokes slightly on the last words, as though hearing them again in her head.

Flynn's lips twitch but for once he manages to restrain himself. She starts to move around her desk and he automatically takes a step back to let her pass but somehow she's closer than he realised; and he doesn't mean to but he says her name. She places a hand against his chest. He can feel the warmth of it through the fine cotton of his shirt.

'Don't. Please, don't make this harder than it already is. And anyhow, there are rules.'

'I know how much you love rules.' He teases her only gently but even so it deflates her.

It's easy to forget sometimes how tiny she is but she seems it now; her eyes are pleading and he marvels how someone with so much strength for other people can have so little for herself.

'I take it back,' he says. 'I'm not sorry.'

Perhaps it's what she sees in his face that changes something in hers. They watch each other for a moment until he touches her cheek with the backs of his fingers and she shivers. Her hand slides up slowly, across his shoulder, comes to rest at the back of his neck.

As her lips part under his he thinks that one kiss isn't enough and two is probably too many. She tastes of chocolate and behind that a flavour he recognises from the night before, the one that is just her. His exploration of her mouth is languorous, leisurely. Her hand tightens at the back of his neck, nails digging into the skin. She leans into him, her body soft and firm at the same time.

'We can't do this,' she tells him when she can speak again and he agrees but he doesn't let her go. They kiss solemnly, as though it's the last time.

'We shouldn't do this.'

'It would be stupid,' he says, experience dragging at his words like a stone.

She nods. 'It would be really stupid.' The uncertainty in her face undermines the statement. He smoothes away the lines in her forehead with his fingers and watches how her eyes grow heavy when he touches her.

'Can I give you a lift home?'

She is still and withdraws and swallows hard. 'I'll get my purse.'

_**Fin**_


End file.
